


Slice

by Brighid



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Recipes, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5659798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid/pseuds/Brighid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of "slice of life" vignettes in the ongoing adventures of Benton and Ray K, post-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slice

**Author's Note:**

> In a galaxy far, far away I wrote due South.

Slice

by Brighid

1.) Flake

***  
A tender-flaky crust is the result of a compromise. Work some of the butter into the flour for tenderness; leave some in larger pieces for flakes.

Buttery, Flaky Pie Crust Recipe: single crust recipe; double if needed.  
1 cup all-purpose flour, 2 tbsp cake flour, 1/4 tsp salt, 1/8 tsp. baking powder, 1 stick of cold butter, cut up into 8 pieces, 3 - 4 tbsp ice water. Stir/pulse together dry ingredients. Pulse (food processor), paddle (mixer), or cut (by hand) in butter pieces until the mixture has a sandy appearance, but there are still small chunks of butter throughout. If you're mixing by hand, work fast, because the mixture needs to stay cold--if the butter starts to melt, refrigerate it for a half an hour to re-chill butter. Sprinkle 3 tbsp. ice water over dough and combine well with a fork. Dough is ready when it holds together when you squeeze it. If it crumbles, sprinkle in a bit more water until it holds. If the dough's still cold, you can roll it right away. Otherwise, roll it into a ball and chill it for a few hours first. To form crust, pat ball into a patty, then roll out on a clean, floured dishcloth. Sprinkle flour on the rolling pin and the dough if the pin sticks. Switch rolling directions to keep a uniform circle. Drape into pie dish and crimp edges. Fill and bake according to pie recipe.  
***

It didn't happen right away. Mostly, I was too damned busy keeping up and trying not to freeze my ass off. Fraser was just as busy trying to keep us heading in the right direction. He never bitched about my lack of skills, gotta hand it to him. Come to think on it, that's some sorta miracle, right there. Fraser, he's a nice guy, but he does bitch. But not then. He just kept shouting, "Heel! Toe!" and every once in awhile, "Kick 'em in the head!" when he thought I needed encouragement. I think he thought it was funny.

Goddamned beautiful freak.

But then we got the groove thing going and it got good, y'know? Suddenly it wasn't racing to get camp set up before I went unconscious, and we could talk. Hang. It was a sweet, sweet thing. And I was scared shitless that I was gonna lose it, that we'd reach the end of the Great White and the reaching out hand would just stop … reaching. Got almost unglued over the whole thing, couldn't meet his eyes, would jump every time he brushed against me because it hurt to think I someday _couldn't_ look at him, touch him.

Fraser notices crap like that. Don't think he always quite knows what to _do_ about it, so we get the Oblivious Mountie routine, but he notices. One night, huddled on top of our bedrolls, finishing off the sweet tea I'd almost gotten used to, he just pinned me with a look and threatened to: "Jump Bogart and Bacall," on me if I didn't spill. His mouth was twitching with the tease, but all the while his eyes were digging into me, like he was Superman and I was the lead-lined wall that he was gonna get through, one way or another. 

I spilled. Hey, he threatened Bogart _and_ Bacall. . 

For the longest time he just stared into his mug, and then he was looking at me again, and it didn't matter how many layers the guy was wearing, he might just as well have been naked. "I was homesick, before all this started, back in Chicago," and his voice was rough, all sandpaper over velvet, "and being here again, I realize just how much I missed it, how much of me is tied up in this wildness. I've missed home, missed so many things about it." And my guts were turning to ice and my heart was slowing down and I was getting ready to pull the blankets over my head and breathe pillow until I never woke up again, but he just coughed, thumbed his eyebrow, kept right on talking. "The Territories are in my bones, my spirit, but you, Ray Kowalski, " and he swallowed so damn hard I was surprised he still had a tongue left, "you are in my … heart." 

I had no spit at all after that, my tongue stuck in my mouth, Sahara city. When I could finally speak, all I could manage was: "Was that hard to say?" And he looked up at me and his eyes were like the sky, all dark and deep with this wild glow at the edges.

"Very," he said at last, his mouth working a bit, his voice deep and scratchy like it gets when he's trying not to lose it. "But true, all the same."

Me being me, I jumped him. Not that kinda jump, not at first, just meant to hug the guy, maybe make free with a noogie or two, but then his breath was on my face, gasping and laughing, and his body was under mine and his eyes were wide and deep and all of a sudden, I was just walking in the sky.

About fifteen minutes later, I found out a whole new way to make him go, "Ray!Ray!Ray!Ray!Ray!" and I gotta say, I liked it a whole lot better. 

About an hour after that we started planning. The next morning we started heading back towards Inuvik so we could start making something happen, knowing damn well that we were gonna have to try and pull off the near-impossible. Although, after those sky-diving Mounties and the nuclear sub, my definition of possible's gotten a lot wider. For all that, we didn't rush it. We had fun with it, made the most of it. Just in case, though neither of us said it out loud. It was a good trip. 

Coming into town, I gotta admit to being kinda surprised. It's bigger than I'd expected. Inuvik has a bunch of motels and even a hotel or two; most of them are on the same street. Lucky for me, Fraser knows all of 'em by experience or reputation. I left choosing a place up to him, on the condition that we got an indoor toilet and hot running water. With Fraser, sometimes you gotta point little details like that out. Since we also had to put up the team, he decided on a place with kennels. So now we're booking into the Aurora Cabin at the Arctic Circle Chalet Bed and Breakfast, Inuvik, and hey, it's in Canadian, so my plastic is all too happy to pay the extra bucks for hot water and a fireplace and a place for Dief to hole up in. The lady at the desk looks sorta flustered, since they only have a double bed left, no twins, but Fraser gestures to his bedroll and things smooth out after that.

He's on me about ten seconds after the animals are safely stowed and we have the door closed behind us. Gets me manhandled into the shower, blows me under the spray, licks all the clean bits until my knees give out and then gets me into bed and gets serious. Maybe "Maintain the Right" is the official, whatchamacallit, motto, but me, I'm going with "Always Gets His Man." I feel thoroughly got. Hot water and Fraser are a fucking lethal combination. By the time he's through with me, I'm pretty much unconscious, but happy as hell about it. I think I doze off for awhile, 'cause I open my eyes to find Dief licking my face and a dressed Fraser staring down at both of us with this wild, shit-eating grin, twice as big and ten times as pretty as the one he got waist-deep in snow in the middle of nowhere. "Frobisher, Thatcher and Welsh." That's all he says, but he keeps right on grinning.

I sit up, scratch a little, thinking this whole cryptic Constable shit would go a lot better with coffee. I tell him so. He just shakes his head at me, sorta like he does when Dief just ain't listening. "Cryptic Corporal," he corrects me. "Cryptic Corporal assigned to the Canadian Embassy in Chicago, on a long-term officer loan to the CPD, Precinct 27, partner to the soon-to-be returning from leave officer Stanley Raymond Kowalski, who's just been transferred in." And still he keeps on smiling, and it's doing funny things to my gut and destinations further south.

"You got that all arranged in an hour?" I ask, staring fuzzily at my watch, and damnit, regular sex does something really bad to my brain, 'cause he's laughing at me, not with me, but I don't mind a bit.

"Frobisher, Thatcher and Welsh," he repeats, patiently, before leaping on the bed, on me, sending a grumbling Dief diving for the relative safety of the floor. The lights go on.

"They set this all up? They had this waiting? What the hell? They part of the psychic friends network now?" And the happy feeling in my belly and balls is reaching out, spreading through all of me.

He nods. "It was one of the options they had in place, yes, but this was the one they thought most likely. There are even contingencies for you to come up here, for us to work for periods of time with the RCMP, Frobisher's detachment, in an effort to foster "interdepartmental co-operation across the border" and such." I kiss him then, lick that maniac grin till I get past the teeth and into the sweet heat of him, and he's laughing, he's happy … and me, I'm freaking blissed-out.

Eventually we end up all tangled up and sweaty and thinking dinner might be a good thing, except for the whole getting dressed thing. I kiss him hard and ask him, "So, how are you gonna introduce yourself to people now, when they ask you what you're doing in Chicago?"

He laughs, licks the side of my neck. "The truth, Ray. I will simply tell them I came to Chicago on the tail of my lover…" and he giggles, he fucking *giggles* when I whack him. 

"You're such a goddamned a freak, Fraser. A _freak_!" I tell him, and I'm grinning like an idiot, like I'm waist-deep in my own personal snowfield; Fraser everywhere, as far as the eye can see, and I'm home. I'm finally home.

"Understood, Ray," he says, and I see the same look in his eyes, see _me_ reflected in the pupils, and I'm walking in the sky all over again. Dinner can wait. "I love you, too."

Dinner can wait forfuckingever.

)0(

2.) Cherry

***  
Cherry Pie: Pastry for 2-crust 9-inch pie, 1 1/3 cup sugar, 1/2 cup all-purpose flour, 3 (16-ounce) cans red tart cherries, undrained, 1/4 tsp almond extract, Few drops red food coloring (optional), 2 tbsp butter, Sugar for sprinkling(optional). Preheat oven to 425*F (220*C). Prepare pastry as directed.  
Mix sugar and flour in large mixing bowl. Stir in cherries, extract and food coloring (if desired). Pour into a pastry-lined pie plate. Dot with butter. Cover with the top crust; seal and flute the edges. Make several slits in top crust to vent the steam. Sprinkle lightly with sugar. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes or until crust is brown and juice begins to bubble through slits in crust. Serves 6 to 8. Note: A lattice-style top crust is very pretty on a cherry pie. Cut rolled pastry dough into 1/2 to 3/4-inch wide strips and weave them on top of the pie.  
***

Most people see exactly what they want to see. That has stood me in good stead countless times over the years. I needn't obfuscate if others are willing to do it for me. Our return to Chicago has only served to prove this rule. Ray's parents, at his request, had packed up his old apartment at the outset of our adventure, since storage rental was significantly cheaper than apartment rental. As a result, he needed somewhere to live. And as for myself, since the cot in the consulate had only ever been meant as a temporary solution, I also needed somewhere to live. It seemed utterly sensible to those who knew us that we should find a two-bedroom together, splitting rent and utilities while our savings regrouped after our long sojourn in the north.

Over time, they will become so accustomed to the arrangement that they will most likely fail to notice when we fail to go our separate ways. God (or whomever else is in charge) willing, that is. Ray has promised to throw out the occasional futile invite of martinis and the Crystal Ballroom, and I, in turn, have promised to be careful what I lick in his presence. Our … subterfuge should probably be sufficient to keep us safe.

Ray says fuck 'em if it isn't. Strangely, I am, for the most part, in accord with that sentiment. I am all over that. 

To our good fortune, there was a two-bedroom suite available in Ray's old building, saving us the trouble of arguing over neighbourhoods and wooing over building managers with the idea of a half-wolf as a prospective tenant. Diefenbaker has long-since wooed Ray's -- now our -- landlady, and she is more than a little taken with the idea of two officers of the law available at a moment's notice. We are, as she so saliently put it, a hell of selling point.

The rent is somewhat less than Ray's previous rent combined with what I payed on Racine, so it is a savings we can invest in future expeditions. It is yet another good thing, although Ray insists on calling "my" room a "broom closet with big ideas." I have no such reservations. My cot fits, as do the small dresser and desk his mother found for us at a yard sale. Dief seems quite enamoured of it, in fact, seeing it as _his_ room, no matter what the rest of the world is encouraged to believe. All in all, mostly moved in and settling nicely, I should be quite content. Happy even.

But I'm not. I am … uneasy. This is an unknown place to me, alien and alienating. I have, despite longing and loneliness, never expected to fit in anywhere, not like this. My few attempts have all ended … badly. And none of them have had the same degree of investiture that this does.

This afternoon's box of broken crockery, dropped as we were moving the last load from storage in when we encountered a group of rather discourteous inline skaters, seems emblematic to me. What seemed so … attainable in a small tent surrounded by snowfields and possibility, seems far too fragile at the moment. My unease makes me withdraw into myself, and I can see that it troubles Ray; he frowns as I pick up the damaged box, disappear into "my" room with it. But I don't quite know what else to do, and I need some time apart to try and figure out, well…

just what the hell I'm doing here. We are a duet, we are complementary, we are, oh God, we are in love, but we are still … separate, disparate. Our differences will tug and pull and rend apart what union we have; it has happened before, it could happen again. I'm not sure I can any more successfully merge my life, my ways into Ray's than I can successfully glue his broken Holstein-wear back into something useful. It may hold for a time, but the cracks will always be there, a weakness ready to crumble into dissolution, shattering everything beyond repair.

"You're brooding," Ray chides from the doorway, and only he can do that, come upon me completely unawares; I have let him in that far. "Hey, it's not your fault, even if I did say I was entrusting you with the sacred cow plates, y'know? I was just kidding. Not like your caribou-trained senses are honed for, uh, whack-job rollerbladers, huh? I mean, if it'd been a herd of buffalo or something, I'd've expected you to jump up and ride one of those bad boys into the lobby, but rollerbladers, hell, I'll let you off." His eyes crinkle, and he's smiling at me, reaching out to me with this little jest and jibe, this little thing we do, but I haven't the heart for it. Instead, I hold up the two largest fragments of what used to be a soup bowl. I feel like a child, holding up his sins and inadequacies for his parents to inspect.

"I can't make it fit together," I tell him, I try to tell him; I will, I desperately _will_ for him to understand.

His expression shifts, slides as about half-a-dozen thoughts go through his head. At last he sighs, comes to sprawl beside my own tidy tailor squat. He takes one of the pieces from me, but he doesn't look at it, just at me. "I'm guessing we're not just talking about dinnerware here, are we?" he says softly, carefully. Ray can be … so very gentle, as gentle as he is wild at times. He brushes shoulders with me affectionately, lets his thigh bump mine. "You ain't never done this before, have you?" he says, shooting me a short, shrewd glance. "And don't give me any song and dance about moving around with your dad and your grandparents, 'cause that ain't what we're talking about here, neither." He sets the bowl shard down, takes the other from me, and grabs my hands in his own warm grasp. My fingers slide under the edge of his silver bracelet, linking us together.

"You've moved, but you ain't never moved _in_ before," he says softly. "Never moved into a home with someone, never moved into a life with someone. Is that it?"

And I'm shaking my head and my throat, oh God, but my throat is thick and I'm shaking and his arms are around me and all I can say is, "I can't make it fit together," and he says, "Don't need to, shh, don't need to." After a time, he wipes my face, licks his fingers, smiles sweetly at me.

"What we need to do here, Benton-Buddy, is to start fresh, y'know? Instead of fitting together, maybe we gotta go at it from scratch." He stands, pulls me to my feet. "Let's go shopping."

So I wash my face and follow him out and before I can even get my head together we're heading into Marshall Field's, all arching architecture and much larger than anywhere I've ever willingly shopped before. Nevertheless, here were are, and Ray's leading us to Housewares with Diefenbaker-like doggedness. "Why are we here?" I ask him, not for the first time, and he grins at me, finally answers.

"When we got married, Stella picked where we registered, what we registered for. She picked the patterns, the pieces, the styles. And I went along with it, and never really fit into it. The story of our marriage -- she couldn't make me fit, y'know?" He grins at me again, and I am, despite my own misgivings, pleased to see this last shadow lifted from him. "In fact, I suspect the cow plates were an act of rebellion, when I think on it."

"Oh, really?" I can't resist, and he smacks me. 

"Any-how," he continues, eyes rolling. "Just seems to me that if we're in this thing together, we're in it _together_ , you know? No ifs, ands or buts. We get stuff that's _ours_ , that is us together." We arrive in Housewares as he says this, and he gestures expansively, a broad out-swing of his arms that sends his jacket fluttering like wings, and it's as wonderful, as delightful as ever it was. "So let's have at it. We'll start with stoneware, maybe? Get ourselves a kettle? And, uh, a teapot. Maybe even a, whaddayacallit, comfy?"

"A cozy, Ray." My mouth twitches. Sometimes, I suspect him of doing that on purpose.

He nods. "Yeah, that's it. A cozy. Mum had one. So, how about it?"

The doubts that have assailed me ease at this. It is foolish to think that buying dishes and tea cozies will somehow overcome the gulf that exists between any two people, but it is, if you will, a bridge, one that Ray has built out of understanding, out of listening to what no one else has ever heard: the words within my silences. I am suddenly, quite irrationally, happy. "That sounds like a … very good idea, Ray." And so we settle down and start looking, and it is an enjoyable thing despite the differences in our tastes.

At last I come upon a stoneware set, medium blue and slightly speckled with white. It has a cream and sugar set, and a teapot. Most importantly, to my mind at least, it resembles the camp set we carried on our adventure. I pull him away from something bright yellow to show it to him, and he frowns thoughtfully, then smiles in recognition. "Yeah, that's the ticket. That's the thing. That's _us_ ," and he slings a companionable arm around my shoulder, for God and all the world to see, and I feel tempted to bend the rule about licking things in public. "Y'know, for a cherry, you're pretty damned good at this."

I lean into him for one brief, forbidden moment, then pull away. "I was thinking, Ray, that sheets might be a good thing as well. You can never have too many sheets, especially with a good thread count, to ensure they stand up to frequent washings." His smile shifts at that, and he gets an almost feral gleam in his eye. 

"Pretty damned good for a cherry," he repeats. "Let's go count threads, Benton, and find us a tea cozy and maybe something warm and cozy for Dief, and if you're really, really good, I'll buy you a box of Field's Frangos before we leave." 

I know that the Frangos will mostly be eaten by him, but that doesn't matter at all. It's the thought that counts.

)0(

3.) Lemon

***  
Shaker Lemon Pie: 2 large lemons, 4 eggs, well beaten, 2 cups sugar. Slice lemons as thin as paper, rind and all. Combine with sugar; mix well. Let stand 2 hours, or preferably overnight, blending occasionally. Add beaten eggs to lemon mixture; mix well. Turn into 9-inch pie shell, arranging lemon slices evenly. Cover with top crust. Cut several slits near center. Bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 375 degrees and bake for about 20 minutes or until silver knife inserted near edge of pie comes out clean. Cool before serving. Recipe from The Shaker Cook Book by Caroline B. Piercy.  
***

Some days just suck lemons, y'know? Today, for instance. I step in wolf shit -- pardon me, scat, -- on the way to the john, and it weren't the well-formed kind, neither, which means a trip to the vet for Dief, a diagnosis of garbage gut which gets us both an earful from the Mountie and then we're home, trying to convince the big baby that Pepto ain't the root of all evil. Which means I'm late for shift and Frannie is moody and bloated and slower than tax refunds and Fraser is stuck at the consulate training some new little Dudley until lunch and then one of my leads winds up a dead end, as in dead _in_ a dumpster in Chinatown, and I'm hip deep in chicken-chow-blech when Fraser turns up and finds the vital clue halfway up the alley and sticking to the wall and …

some days just suck.

But it sucks a lot less once Fraser shows up, I gotta hand you that. The guy goes around chatting up the locals in Mandarin and Cantonese and whatever the fuck else, and he's got a handful of leads and a little baggie of fortune cookies, which he reads to me and I add "in bed" to for every one, making him twitch and rub his eyebrows and all those sweet little Fraser-moves he's got and I want to see. 

So the leads take us to the docks and we wind up getting jumped and tied up and somebody dents the sacred Stetson and that just makes Fraser _mad_ and then we get loose and we get the jump and then back-up arrives, and hell, at least I'm not huffing up lake water, so maybe it don’t suck that bad. 

But all in all, I'm glad when I've got the whole thing dotted, filed and stuck in the done box. Fraser helps me get it all put together, and these days, since he's mostly here and not picking up dry-cleaning, my inbox is pretty empty and my outbox is pretty well sorted. Partnering with him leads to a tendency to get out somewheres resembling on time, when it's not getting us beaten up and kidnapped. 

I try to wrangle for take-out on the drive home, but Fraser just eyeballs me and reminds me we've got chicken thawing in the fridge, and besides which, it would be unfair to Dief, who is restricted to oatmeal at this point, until the shits are done with. Then there are a few not-so-subtle reminders about my own garbage-gut tendencies and it just ain't worth it, and hell, the place has a dishwasher, and since I caved on the takeout it'll be his turn to cave on using it for once. We're good at negotiating on things like that, although it sounds kinda like bickering to those not in the know.

Home is good, home is greatness, and Fraser de-shits the bathroom where we left Dief for the day, then throws me in the shower with a pointed reference to my less-than pleasing eau de days-old dumpster. By the time I'm toweling off he's gone down to run a load down through the laundry. I crack open a beer, start in on dinner, cleaning up some potatoes and slicing up carrots, even starting a pot of oatmeal for Dief, who's making pleading noises, like, "C'mon buddy, can you spare a wonton?" but I'm on to him, and hell, I've already endured the wrath of Fraser once today, and I tell him that, holding his muzzle so he gets the point. The furry little bastard mumbles something rude and heads off to watch television, leaving me to the vegetables. And then Fraser comes up behind me as I'm chopping, takes the knife from my right hand, the beer from my left hand, and he kisses the side of my neck and it's good, it's greatness.

Did I say today sucked? Musta been off my head.

)0(

4.) Peach

***  
Peach Cobbler: 1/2cup light-brown sugar (packed), 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon, 1 tsp grated lemon rind,1 tbsp lemon juice, 4 cup sliced peeled peaches, 3/4 cup all-purpose flour, 1/2 cup whole-wheat flour, 1 tbsp baking powder, 1/4 cup butter, 2 egg whites beaten, 1/2 cup milk, 1/2 tsp vanilla . Preheat oven to 375°F.  
Lightly grease 8"x 8"x 2" baking dish. Combine brown sugar, cinnamon, lemon rind and juice in a large bowl. Add peaches; toss to mix. Transfer to prepared baking dish. Combine flours and baking powder on a piece of waxed paper. Beat together butter and sugar in a medium-sized bowl until light and fluffy. Beat in egg white. Add dry ingredients alternately with milk and vanilla, stirring just to combine. Drop batter by spoonfuls over peach mixture; Spread gently. Bake in preheated 375°F oven for 25 to 30 minutes or until peaches are tender and crust is golden brown. Serve warm.  
***

The sheer variety of produce available in urban groceries is one of the luxuries that I have become most enamoured of, I must admit. If I were a better man, I would say it was the museums and the theatres that weakened me, but truth be told, I think it was the out of season strawberries. There is something very … satisfying about sinking your teeth into a strawberry. Or, if I am completely honest, about watching Ray sink his teeth into a strawberry. 

Today, however, it is peaches that have my attention. Fortunately, they are both in season and in great supply. We have been invited to dinner at Ray's parents', and I asked to be allowed to bring dessert. I have decided that a peach cobbler, something I remember dimly from my mother's kitchen, would be a good dish. Cobblers can and often do end up a little messy, so my lack of expertise may be less apparent than if I attempted a pie or a cake of some sort. And if it fails miserably, at least I can feed it to Dief without totally violating my principles.

God, we're all of us getting soft. 

So I'm sorting through the store's stock, choosing those that smell and feel the freshest; somewhere in the middle of the process Ray has wandered off, making vague hand gestures and faint noises about "foraging". Since I have the list, and I am, in fact, the only one who ever has a list, I must admit to some curiosity as to what Ray is finding in his foraging. The man has eclectic tastes, and there is something of the magpie in him when he shops. Bright and shiny gets him every time.

It is, strangely enough, one of his more endearing traits. One amongst many. 

The last time we went shopping, we came in for fresh vegetables and Murphy's Wood Oil Soap. We left with dried figs, a chew toy of staggering proportions, massage oil, three paperbacks and two videotapes. That is, in addition to the vegetables and soap; I am not so easily distracted as Ray. 

I finish choosing my peaches for baking, select a few more for the fruit bowl, get the last of the fresh produce on our list. The meat department is next, and last, thus minimizing the time our perishables spend outside of refrigeration. I once tried to explain this to Ray, but he just smiled at me and called me a freak. At least he's learned to make them bag the meat products separately. 

Once I've chosen the meat, I set off in search of the mighty forager. I find him, not surprisingly, in the bakery department. He has grabbed a small hand basket, and as I suspected, it is stuffed full of odds and ends, including but not limited to old-fashioned doughnuts, Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia, jalapeno sauce, a twist of Italian sausage, hair gel, a bag of M&M's, beef jerky and, oh my, dandelion soda.

I shake my head at him. "Ray. Ray. Ray. Oh, Ray." He grins at me unrepentantly, and I am both exasperated and amused. "For God's sake, Ray. I might just as well tie a basket onto Diefenbaker and let him do the shopping."

Ray laughs at that. "God, that'd be a sight. No doughnut'd be safe."

"As though they are now," I sigh, but there really isn't any point, and honestly, a part of me enjoys this. "If you put the doughnuts back, and trade the ice cream for low-fat vanilla, I can promise you that after we get home from your parents' we'll put the ice-cream and extra peaches to, ah, good use," and I drop my voice low, just for him. 

He hooks his free thumb through his belt, eyes me up and down, his smile shifting, deepening. "You, uh, wouldn't be trying to bribe an officer of the law there, wouldja buddy?"

I nod. "Yes. With sexual favours involving foodstuffs, no less. Is it working?" 

He leans in, and his breath is hot on my face. "Pretty damned good. In fact, I probably coulda been persuaded to give up the jerky, too." He laughs, walks off to return the doughnuts and change the ice cream.

I do not see fit to inform him that I rather _like_ beef jerky. Somebody has to set an example.

)0(

5.) Nuts

***  
Double Peanut Pie: 1 9-inch unbaked pie crust, 3 eggs, 1cup dark corn syrup, 1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 cup creamy peanut butter, 1/2 tsp vanilla extract, 1 cup salted peanuts, whipped cream for garnish. Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. In large bowl with mixer at medium speed, beat eggs with corn syrup, sugar, pb and vanilla until smooth. Stir in peanuts. Pour mixture into shell, bake in oven 55 to 60 minutes or until knife inserted about 1 inch from edge comes out clean. Serve with whipped cream.  
***

OgodOgodOgod, Fraser is there, he's on the sweet spot, he's on it and into it and making these noises that make me glad we're a coupla floors up from the landlady and jesus, one more, two more and then…

"Dad!"

And hello, new kink, okay, just don't stop moving, we'll talk that one over later, but he is, oh, fuck, he's stopping and he's moving out and, "I have a gun, y'know!" but he's away and scrabbling back off the bed like he's seen a freaking ghost and horny and pissed are gone like _that_ , sliding into confused and worried. "What? What? What's the matter?"

And he's just shaking his head, shifting from pale to brick red. "Sorry, Ray. Just, ah, something I ate. So terribly sorry," and he's off to the john but he ain't puking, he's whispering, and that's too fucking weird, even for him. So I find my shorts and head off after him, only there are _two_ goddamned voices in the bathroom -- not just Fraser having some sorta Three Faces of Eve moment in there -- but two goddamned _separate_ voices. Arguing.

"I thought you were _gone_ ," Fraser's saying, and he sounds embarrassed and pissed and confused and sorta longing at the same time.

"I moved on, yes," the other voice is saying. "But I never said I wouldn't come back for a visit, to check up on you. I am your father, after all. And a damned good thing, too. For God's sake, son, when I said a partnership was like a marriage, it was a _metaphor_. I didn't mean you to take it quite so much to heart!"

Dief noses me from behind, unexpectedly, and I give off a girly scream, goddamnit it, but hell, Fraser's dad is dead, hence the whole "on the trail of the killer's of my father" spiel. So if he's talking to his Dad, he's talking to his dead Dad who just, obviously, saw us having sex. Really, really good sex. Which after the whole dead Dad thing, Fraser might never be willing to have again.

If the fucker weren't already a ghost, I'd kill him. I glance down at Dief. "You knew about this, and you never told me?" and he just sorta shrugs, if that's even possible when you ain't exactly got shoulders. "Big help you are," I tell him, but it's just venting. I mean, hell.

Fraser's talking to his dead dad in our bathroom, and I might never get laid again.

And that's enough to get my Irish up, the bit I got from my mum, and I'm getting a coat hanger and I'm popping the little lock, and Benton turns to stare at me, robe half-ass wrapped around him and he's with some old grizzled guy in red serge who looks sorta like bad television reception, when one channel kinda washes over the other. "You!" I point at Fraser. "Get your ass back to bed. Don't even!" when he starts to say something to me. For once, for freaking once, he just shuts his yap and does what he's told. Must be shock.

"And you!" I'm pointing at Ghost Dad. "You can come back tomorrow, right? At a decent time, not before breakfast and certainly not when we might be busy doing, uh, other things?"

He nods at me, and he's quiet, too. Two Frasers with one bad mood. Gotta be a record. "Okay then. You, vamoose. Go play curling or whatever the hell you do in the afterlife, and I'm gonna go try and scrape your son of the ceiling. And don't think I won't have a few things to say to you about him, don't you think I just won't, you got that?"

And he looks a little pissed, but he's smiling, too. "You're a good man, for a Yank," he says at last, even as he's fading about the edges. "Though God only knows what I'm going to tell his mother." 

"Tell her that he's fine," I snap back, and then, a little softer, "and that he's loved," and he grins even bigger, until it's just the smile, like that cat, only I don't remember any mushrooms in our dinner. I take a minute to stick my head under the tap, scrub the willies out before going back in to Fraser.

"You can see him," he says quietly, from under the covers, still in his robe.

"It would seem so, yeah," I agree. "That would explain some of our crazier conversations, I'm thinking?" He nods. "You, uh, seemed surprised to see him."

He nods again. I crawl in beside him, poke him until he gives up the goods. "He disappeared after Muldoon. His last case, he said, his last man. My mother came for him, and they walked off into the light together. Buck Frobisher and Maggie could see him, too, by the way; up until then, I had just always assumed I was, er…"

"Unhinged?" I offer, and he nods, smiles a little. "Yeah, well, we're partners. If you're nuts, then we're both nuts. It's part of the deal." I pull him into my shoulder, sink into the pillows. "So, it kinda seems he's not gone for good. That a good thing or a bad thing?"

He's real quiet for a long time, just soft, slow breaths and the beat of his heart. "I don't know. I was often …angry with him when he'd appear, angry about all the things he'd missed out on, the things he'd missed about me, the things he seemed willfully _ignorant_ about. He was maddening … but at least he was still there, still trying, after his own fashion. It made me believe that he actually cared, even if he was absolutely terrible about showing it." He swallows hard. "After I was … shot, by Ray Vecchio, he wouldn't let me slip free. He pushed me back in, held me in place." And just like that he's crying. No noise or fuss, just these tears that keep on coming. I gather him up, hold onto him.

"Parents are like that," I manage at last. "Showing up with cars, coming back from the dead. Freaks." He laughs at that, wet and a little messy, but a real laugh. "Maybe it'll be nice, getting to know your old man. Though if he shows up in the middle of sex again, I will kick him in the head."

He laughs again, turns into me so his lips are on me. "I don't think you can kick him, Ray. He's a ghost. Or something like that."

I kiss him, long and slow and sweet. "He ain't never met a Benton-deprived Ray Kowalski. I can pretty much guarantee that there'll be head-kicking." 

"I'll take your word for it, Ray," he says, all serious, for about the whole two seconds before he tackles me and gets my shorts off.

)0(

6.) Mincemeat

***  
Mincemeat Pie: 3 to 4 cups of prepared mincemeat, 1 1/2 cups walnuts, coarsely broken, 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/2 cup brandy, pastry for a two crust deep 9-inch pie. Several days in advance, combine all the ingredients. Refrigerate to allow flavors to mingle. Preheat oven to 425 F. Prepare crust. Pour in filling, topping with a crust Bake for 30 minutes or until brown. Serves 6 to 8. Note: Serve warm, with Hard Sauce or a slice of sharp Cheddar cheese.  
***

Francesca is waiting for me when I arrive at the station, and her face is awash in fear and sorrow and concern. With the soft, ripe curves of her second pregnancy, she is very like the Madonna that hangs in her family's front hall. "He's in the storage closet. I think he's taken it apart, by the sounds of things. It's not his fault," she blurts out. "It's not his fault, you tell him that, Fraser, you tell him that, all right?" I nod grimly, brush past her, follow the sounds of destruction that echo over the oddly quiet station house.

They found the body of Marie Petrelli early this morning, raped and disfigured; they might not have found her at all but Ray pushed through the night, getting all the pieces together to get the warrant, to get into Dodd's house. Welsh told me, in his brief phone call, that she had probably been dead less than hour, as much a victim of due process and procedure as of Graham Dodd. 

I have only arrived back in Chicago in the last hour or so, cutting short my meetings in Ottawa to come and help Ray with the case that has consumed him since the day after my departure. I had feared it would come down to this. He is a compassionate man, and a passionate one, and the two together might prove his undoing, someday, because he feels it all too deeply, despite all his protestations otherwise.

I pound once on the storage room door. "Ray. I’m coming in!" and I open the door and he's pacing around the small space, wound tightly in on himself. I can see at a glance that the one open wall is dented with fist marks, smeared slightly with his blood. I can also see that at least one of his knuckles is broken, and his hands are swollen. "Oh, Ray."

"God damn, Fraser, God damn, God FUCKING damn," and he's in my arms, he's sobbing so hard he's choking. "She was still warm, she was still fucking *  
_warm_ and he was doing his laundry like it was any other day. Why? WHY?" and I have no answers for him, I can only try to hold him together until this storm has passed. He shudders, leans away to vomit spit and acid, but he doesn't let go. 

Time slips by and he is eventually quiet. Francesca comes to the door, holding a cold soda. "Drink this," she orders, opening it for him like he's a child, crouching awkwardly beside us, holding it to his lips. "Listen to your sister, and drink this," she says, and right now, right here, she is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Ray sips it, takes the can away from her after a swallow or two.

"Thanks, Frannie," he says, and she touches his face. 

"You did everything you could, Ray," she says, then crawls over to the door frame, levers herself up off the floor. "There's nobody here who thinks otherwise, you know?" Her voice breaks, and she hurries away as much as a woman in her condition can hurry.

He sips his soda slowly, thoughtfully. "Tell me again how we make the world a better place, where good people can tuck their kids in at night, turn out the lights and know they'll be safe." His words are dark and bitter and laced with longing.

"We try, Ray. We can only try." I kiss his sweaty hair, for there is no one lingering to see. It would not matter if there were.

He laughs, an unpleasant noise. "Tell that to Marie Petrelli and her family."

"I will tell it to the families of the little girls Dodd will not have a chance to victimize, because you made sure you did it right, that you backed up your hunches with evidence and documents," I whisper.

"It's not enough, Ben. It's not enough," he says. "And my hand fucking hurts. I guess I lost it, huh?" His eyes are wide, drifting, and I realize that he's moved into a safe place, something a little removed from reality, fueled by adrenaline and grief. It's not a bad thing, not at the moment. If he could not drift out, he could not survive these sorts of tragedies, and keep doing what he does so well.

"It has to be enough, Ray," I tell him, and I lift him to his feet, and I kiss his poor, mangled hands, and lead him out of the closet, out of the station.

)0(

7.) Apple

***  
Old Fashioned Apple Pie: 1 cup sugar, 1 cup sour cream, 1/2 cup flour, 1 egg, 2 tsp vanilla, 8 Granny Smith or tart apples (peeled, cored and sliced), 1 deep-dish pie shell, Topping: 1/2 cup butter, 1-1/2 cup walnut pieces, 1/2 cup sugar, 3/4 cup flour, 1 tbsp cinnamon, 1/2 cup brown sugar. Blend sour cream, 1 cup sugar, flour, egg, and vanilla until smooth. Add apples and pour into shell. Bake for 45 minutes at 400 degrees. Mix topping ingredients together. Evenly sprinkle over pie; bake 5 minutes longer. 

***

We went shopping this morning, and hey, it's apple season again, and Fraser, he went a little nuts, just like last year. The man likes his apples. Likes all sorts of fruits, really. Says it was actually easier to get candy than fresh fruits up in the Northern Areas; cheaper to ship, no spoilage. So when we get groceries, he gets sorta the same wired look in the fruit section that I get in the candy aisle.

Today, it was apples. We've got Galas and Roses and Macs and a bunch of names Fraser knows and I don't give a damn about. Some he's gonna try baking -- apple crumble with the sour green ones, apple pie with the Galas. Since that mixes his fruit freak with my sweet tooth, it's a good thing, and Dief's down with it, too. He's actually not a bad baker -- dinner is my thing, 'cause dinner is a lot of feel and instinct, but baking takes steps and procedures and really ass-numbing measuring, and he's good at that. My mum still talks about his peach cobbler. Think she knows about us, but she ain't saying, and I ain't asking. Ain't gonna upset the apple cart, so to speak.

I gotta admit, though, there's something really great about when the apples are all in and Fraser's going a little crazy over 'em. He eats one or two a day, and I tell you, watching Fraser eat an apple is like watching porn, but without the guilt, y'know?. He does things to those apples with his mouth that leaves me so hard I don't have enough blood left in my head to form sentences anymore.

He's eating one now, sitting beside me on the couch, watching hockey. It's a juicy one, and y'know, the game might just as well be curling for all I'm paying attention. He's got shiny apple juice streaks on his chin, and he's making these happy little 'hmmms' as he's chewing, and that's just it, just freaking _it_ , I'm taking the apple away, licking the juice from his fingers, his face, and the apple rolls across the hardwood, but we're busy getting busy so Dief gets it.

Later, still a bit shiny and sticky, he's curled up against me under the blanket we keep on the back of the couch. "Usually it takes two or three apples to get that reaction out of you," he says sleepily.

I blink, peer down at him. "Whaddaya mean, usually? Are you saying you do, uh, that on purpose?"

He smiles up at me. "Yes."

"You've been using apples to fuck with me?" I say, looking to make sure I'm real clear on this. He nods.

"Apples have a long history in the realm of temptation. The first time I noticed your reaction, it seemed like a good idea to go with a time-proven method. Although," he says, kinda dreamily, "strawberries are rather nice, too."

I stare down at him, start laughing. "Fraser. Benton Fraser. You are going to hell in a hand cart, you know that, right?"

He nods again. "Probably, Ray," but this time, he doesn't sound a bit worried. 

I pet his head, stroke his eyebrows, and he closes his eyes, shifts to get comfortable. "Yeah, well. Save me a good spot, then. Something close to the fire."

"Will do, Ray," he yawns, and then he's sleeping and I'm watching the third period and Dief is in the kitchen, looking for more apples.

)0( 

8.) Key Lime

***  
Key Lime Pie: Makes 8 servings, 1 cup boiling water, 1 package (4-serving size) JELL-O Brand Lime Flavor Gelatin Dessert, 1 can (14 ounces) sweetened condensed milk, 1/2 cup lime juice, 1 to 2 tsp grated lime peel, 1 tub (8 ounces) COOL WHIP Whipped Topping, thawed, 1 prepared graham cracker crumb crust (6 ounces or 9 inches), Lime slices (optional). Stir boiling water into gelatin in large bowl 2 minutes or until completely dissolved. Stir in condensed milk, lime juice and lime peel. Refrigerate about 30 minutes or until slightly thickened (consistency of unbeaten egg whites). Reserve 1/2 cup whipped topping. Gently stir remaining whipped topping into gelatin mixture. Spoon into piecrust. Refrigerate 3 hours or until firm. Garnish with reserved whipped topping and lime slices.  
***

We have been invited to Florida for Christmas, along with the rest of the Vecchio clan. Ray's first instinct was to decline. His words, if I recall correctly, were "Fuck, no!" After some discussion, he moderated his position to "Hell, no!" After a few days it became "We'll see." As of last Tuesday, it was, "All right, okay, shut-UP about it already, Fraser."

It's good that we can work these things out.

The truth is, we need to go. I need … closure, on my relationship with Ray Vecchio, as does he with regards to his marriage with Stella. It is not that we have not moved on, but sometimes, you just need to close a door. Ray Vecchio will always be my dear friend, and Ray will always love Stella, but both of those relationships need to be put in their place, settled and sorted. And Ray understands that, even if he protests it loudly. And frequently. If he did not, we would not be going.

Besides which, I feel a need to share with Ray my relationship with Ray, and dear God, just thinking sentences like that can make one dizzy. As well, Ray needs to tell Stella about us, if only to prevent her from someday hearing it from somebody else. Finding out one's ex-spouse is involved in a same-sex relationship should come directly from said former spouse. It's considerate, if nothing else.

We'll wait, however, until Francesca, young Francis, baby Lucinda and Mother Vecchio have all returned home, just to be safe. Both Ray and Stella Vecchio are prone to emotional outbursts, and we've no desire to ruin Christmas for anyone. Ruining New Years, Ray assures me, is just fine.

He has a perverse sense of humour. It is one of his more endearing traits. One amongst many. 

In light of our upcoming trip, we are at the station late, attempting to make sure all of our case files are updated, and all the paperwork is in order. While not as bad as Ray was wont to let it get before I became an even more regular partner, things still tend to get away from him from time to time, and this was one of Welsh's stipulations before he would grant us the leave time. 

We are simply waiting now for Ray to add in his statements on two final files. I'm shifting in my seat, my back a little uncomfortable. I'm finding the bullet wound aches a bit when the weather changes. Ray catches my movement, makes a shooing gesture. "What, I've got you handcuffed here? Go, walk, shake it out." He glances at me. "Hot bath and wintergreen when we get home?" I nod gratefully, stand and stretch, head towards the break room. Diefenbaker raises his head, as though he were considering following me, but he quickly realizes there is little point. I am not the one who makes free with the baked goods and potato chips. The odds are better right where he is.

Lieutenant Welsh is in there, eating a sandwich, drinking coffee. "Good evening, Corporal. Getting everything in order before your big trip?" I grab my mug from the cupboard, dispense some hot water from the spigot on the coffee machine, add a chamomile tea bag, and then join the Lieutenant at his table. 

"Yes, nearly done. We shall be able to leave with clear consciences." I sip the tea, and the warmth of it takes the edge of chill off the winter night.

The Lieutenant salutes me with his cup. "Which is more than most men can say," and I nod in agreement. "So, you've been home almost two years, now, haven't you?" he says suddenly, seemingly inconsequentially, but Harding Welsh is not a man given to small talk. He usually has a purpose. I nod again, but do not speak.

"So you and Detective Kowalski. The whole partnership thing, it's working for you?" and his eyes are bright and knowing, and there is the hint of a smile. Again, I simply nod, and his smile broadens. "I'd say you're probably right, Corporal Fraser. Your solve rate is easily one of the best in the precinct. Maybe the city, but you didn't hear that from me. You work well together. And you even manage to stay best friends and roommates. Whatever it is you're doing, keep it up." He finishes his sandwich and his coffee, and lays a friendly hand upon my shoulder as he rises to leave. "Merry Christmas, Fraser," he says, and then returns to his office, whistling.

Harding Welsh knows. He undoubtedly knows, and he smiled and wished us both a Merry Christmas, and that is oddly comforting. It makes me easier about the upcoming trip, and the risks it entails. All of life, after all, is a risk. What makes it worth it is what you receive in return for risk you are willing to take.

Ray Kowalski is a far greater gift than I had ever hoped to have, and so is worth every risk I've taken, the ones with my body and the ones with my heart.

I think I will tell him that, when we get home.

)0( 

An End


End file.
